


The Hobbiton Show

by peterqpan



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Muffins, Mystery, muppets - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: Five times Detective Inspector Thorin misunderstood his conversation with a puppet, and one time he realized he was being asked out on a date by a human being.Merry, merry Christmas, Hobbit!  =D
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	The Hobbiton Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbit/gifts).



“Thorin,” Dis’ eyebrows were nearly at her hairline. “There’s a fax here from  _ The Hobbiton Show _ .”

He nodded, kicking his chair a bit closer without looking up from his keyboard, and holding a hand out.

She scooted out of reach. “They want you. On the  _ show _ , Thorin.”

He went still, frown deepening, and waved his hand for the paper. “No.”

“Yes!” She sidled away, but flipped it to point out the text. “They’ve  _ cordially invited _ you. For...puppet tea, Thorin. They want you to have  _ tea with puppets _ . Thorin,” she narrowed her eyes, dodging his swipes for the paper and trotting around to drop into the chair at her own desk. “Have you been... _ associating with puppets on a children’s show?” _

“I faxed them a list of safety suggestions,” he held his hand out again. “For kids.”

“That’s a really good idea,” she clonked her boots onto her desk, settling in to inspect the invitation. “I didn’t know the fax machine still worked. It roared to into action like a zombie punching forth from a grave and spat this out on my foot. I bet you sent them all in a flurry trying to figure out how to communicate with this cave troll who still used a  _ fax machine _ .”

He paused, turning his frown on the machine. “I use the fax machine.”

“You are the only one. You’re its only friend, like an owner defending its ugly pet from laughing neighbours.”

“The fax machine works perfectly--”

“They want you to talk about the case, Thorin,” she frowned up, and he held his hand out, again, for the paper.

“I can’t tell children about the case.”

“Obviously. For one, you’d have to talk to children. Two, you’d have to talk. Three, you’d have to give them gruesome details of child dismemberment--”

“I talk to  _ your _ children,” Thorin snapped. “And their friends. They’re much easier to deal with than their parents.”

“About murder? Because that may explain why Kili’s having night terrors--”

“Is he? I could--”

“He’s fine, Thorin, he needs to stop watching  _ Alien _ through the railing after I’ve sent him to bed.” She pursed her lips, then snickered, reading the invitation for at least the third time.

_ “Dis,” _ he snapped his fingers, leaning across.

“I need copies of this. It’s so chipper. It uses the phrase ‘a spot of tea.’ Thorin. I think this was actually written by someone speaking in character as a puppet. Do,  _ do _ go over and spill details of murder and mayhem over a ‘spot of tea’--”

“Dis,” he growled, slumping into his chair in resignation. “Obviously they got their paperwork mixed up.”

“I don’t think so,” she held it out, pointing at a section, then snatched it back from his fingers. “It says ‘We were particularly charmed by your suggestion of a skit about a puppet who is afraid of getting lost receiving this advice from a child.’ Thorin. I must see it. You  _ wrote a skit.” _

“I did not,” he placed his feet securely on the floor, pretended to search through his paperclips, and then snatched at the paper, but she kicked off the desk, spinning off in her office chair into the next desk. “I suggested the idea, that is all.”

“Apparently the little girl you found is a fan of the show,” she watched his face. “Your much-photographed rescue.”

“That’s how I thought of writing to them,” he sighed. “She--”

“She  _ also _ wrote to them, and wants to tell everyone what you told her--Thorin, you  _ syrupy old bear.” _

“I told her absolutely nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, stiff, and walked over to yank the paper out of her hand. 

  
  


The Hobbiton set was charming, naturally, tiny fragile flowers growing up arbours and out of window boxes, all undoubtedly actually styrofoam and eagerly awaiting the opportunity to crumble under Thorin’s hands. He shuffled in place, tucking his hair behind his ears. The puppet seated on the bench by the little door waved, and he waved back, examining the path. “Is this safe for Big People,” he asked, hunching his shoulders slightly at a squeak of muffled laughter over by the lights.

“Do you really think I’d invite a guest, and then let him fall through to--” the puppet leaned around the tea table to peer at the path. “--wherever do you suppose? The Underworld? Australia?  _ Certainly  _ not.”

“Oh,” Thorin nodded, stepping up carefully, and edged his way up to the low chair they’d placed next to the Hobbit’s bench. When Thorin had first seen it, he’d thought it was a dig at his height, but it was barely short enough to sit at the puppet-sized table.

“Thank you for visiting us, Detective Chief Inspector,” the puppet--the Hobbit, he corrected himself--held a hand out, and Thorin shook it politely. 

“Call me Thorin.”

“And I’m Bilbo,” the puppet shook his hand in both its soft fluffy appendages. “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh,” Thorin hadn’t really noticed the little tea service, but he reached over and grabbed the teapot. “I’ll play mother, then.”

“You’ll what,” the puppet looked from him to the cameras.

“I’ll pour,” Thorin frowned. “Your hands are soft, isn’t it hard for you to hold?”

“I can manage,” the puppet prodded three pieces of shortbread onto a very small plate, which Thorin traded for a full cup of tea. 

“These are very nice biscuits,” Thorin acknowledged, taking Dis’ advice, and trying not to act like a badger who’d been interrupted trying to watch the World Cup.

“Family recipe,” Bilbo-the-puppet said, and Thorin wondered whether he’d need to watch more of the show to see whether Bilbo regularly baked, or whether one of the puppeteers had broken role. “I do hope the tea isn’t cold.”

“It could use a zap,” Thorin shrugged, then paused. “Oh, you probably don’t have microwaves in Hobbiton. They’re like magical flameless ovens,” he sat his tea aside to hold his hands shoulder-width apart. “About so big. You put your tea in--”

Bilbo looked from him to the camera, then down at his puppet-self. “Your oven...is the size of a person.” he leaned away.

Thorin snorted, coughing, and waved his hands. “No--”

The puppet poked his hand. “Is your person-oven in...a  _ gingerbread house?” _

“No!” Thorin felt his neck reddening, and couldn’t suppress a grin. “It has to be big enough for pie, is all!”

“He microwaves _ pie,”  _ Bilbo told the camera, and Thorin tried to defend himself. By the break in filming, his cheeks hurt from smiling.

  
  


The coffee the pump thermos spit out somehow missed Thorin’s cup entirely, and he was rapidly building a tiny canal of napkins to redirect it away from the scones when his elbow bumped someone. He glanced up, frowning at someone trying to shake his hand when he was obviously busy with flood recovery.

“Bilbo Baggins,” said the familiar voice, deeper and a bit more sarcastic than he’d sounded as a puppet, and Thorin set his shoulders. “I was going to say,” Bilbo slid the waste bin over with his foot, and Thorin grabbed a handful of napkins and nudged the lake he’d created off the edge and into it, before realizing with the disaster relief handled, he’d be expected to chat. “--there’s a tea shop across the street. Better behaved pastries. I thought maybe--”

“These are fine,” Thorin grabbed randomly for a napkin and something flaky, and stomped off. It was soggy at the edge with stale coffee, and tasted irredeemably of a gas station pastry cabinet, but he shoved it in his face, holding Bilbo’s gaze from across the room.

Bilbo blinked first, nodding slowly, and retreated to the room with the On Air sign over the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry, merry Christmas, Hobbit! =D MORE IS YET TO COME


End file.
